


You're Lucky We're Not Measuring-- RICHIE!

by notalone91



Series: All I Know Is Pouring Rain (Everything Has Changed) [5]
Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Comedian Richie Tozier, Comedy, Eddie Kaspbrak Loves Richie Tozier, Gen, M/M, Multi, Other, Rated T for Trashmouth, Richie Tozier Loves Eddie Kaspbrak, Richie Tozier is a Dork, Richie Tozier is a Little Shit, Richie Tozier is a Mess, Richie Tozier's Stand Up Act, Richie Tozier's Trashmouth, high energy, my boy is a chaotic mess and i love him, this is literally just a monologue with narration of richie running around on a stage but like
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-15
Updated: 2020-01-15
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:00:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22263754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notalone91/pseuds/notalone91
Summary: Fresh off his personal hiatus, Comedy heavy-hitter, Richie Tozier, is back at it with a refreshing take on life, love, Hollywood, mental health, and friendships.A Netflix Exclusive
Relationships: Ben Hanscom & Richie Tozier, Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Series: All I Know Is Pouring Rain (Everything Has Changed) [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1493003
Comments: 12
Kudos: 175





	You're Lucky We're Not Measuring-- RICHIE!

It’s the second night of taping for _You’re Lucky We’re Not Measuring… Richie!_ They’ve gotten some great takes, but some of the show has felt a little blase, at least to Richie. The director insists that he’s wrong, that the crowd is eating it up. When he turns to Eddie for confirmation, he can see that that’s probably not accurate. When he comes back on stage, the cameras are reset and rolling and he’s supposed to hype the crowd back up. 

“Pick on them a little,” the director had prompted. “They love that kind of shit.”

Eddie had leaned over, slinging his arms around his waist, and pressed a kiss to his shoulder. “I know I do.” He should have known by the glint in his husband’s eye that something was afoot. When Richie’s inspired, there’s not a whole lot that can be done to stop him. It’s like a dam breaks and all you can do is get out of the flood path in his wake. 

Richie’s name is announced and he takes off at a run, lands centerstage and puts his hands around the microphone, leaning in like he’s sharing a secret with the audience. “So, you know how, when you’re 13 and in love and a deeply repressed little thing who wears loud Hawaiian shirts and has coke bottle glasses and a grade-A asshole?” There are a few laughs from the audience, but from what he can make out, the reactions are largely confused. “No, a uniquely Richie thing? That’s fine,” he laughs at himself, brushing it off. He plays it out with pursed lips and closed eyes like he’s pretending to say it doesn’t matter while fighting off exaggerated tears. He smiles and looks off to the stage left wing where Eddie is perched on his stool.

That’s all it takes to recenter Richie. One quick glance and he’s back to the races. “Anyway. You all remember my husband, Eddie, right?” He waves his arm in the general direction of his husband and the crowd erupts. Eddie is, as his fans have so rightfully pointed out, the Chrissy Teigen to his John Legend and most of them probably like him more than Richie, which is fine by Richie because-- duh. He starts describing Eddie in vivid detail. “Perfectly coiffed dark brown hair that begs to be jostled out of place. Puppy-dog eyes. Cheekbones to high heavens, broad shoulders, ass you could bounce a quarter off of-” He zones out with his hands in roughly the same area where Eddie’s ass would be were he standing in front of Richie, then he cocks his head to the side, adding under his breath with his hand curled over his mouth, “which I may or may not have tried at one point.” He shrugs and pulls the mic off the stand, sauntering to the right side of the stage.

A blonde woman in business attire the first row has her hands covering her face. “Hey! It’s not fair. We’re fucking forty, okay?” he says to her. “A guy shouldn’t be allowed to have that ass at our age! Right?” He addresses the crowd with his last question and laughs along with their cheers.

Hearing a shout of “ HE DUMMY THICC, DADDY!” from the mezzanine, he looks up and points to the sound. “That guy knows what I’m talking about,” he laughs out before a smile creeps over his face and he breaks. He doubles over in laughter, one hand on his knee, the other tapping the microphone against his forehead. Trying to regain his composure, he stands back up and continues. “Just…” He makes a little grunt with his lower lip tugged between his teeth and pantomimes squeezing said ass roughly and animalistically. Then, he clasps his hands over the mic in faux prayer and stage whispers, “Thank you!” He chances a glance back to the wings and winks at Eddie. He’ll pay for that later, sure, but in the meantime...

When the crowd finally settles back down enough, he tracks them back to the bit. “Okay. So, picture this.” He paces to center, confidence flowing out of him. Richie is in his sweet spot and he knows it. He holds his free hand up in front of him, creating the corner of a picture frame. “I’m 13 and the boy I’m in love with thinks that _Like A Prayer_ and _Tell It To My Heart_ are, like, peak musical genius.” His face is one of pure distaste and his tone is playfully scathing, but the audience gets it. They’re with him. “But at 13, I was _convinced_ that I was going to be the World’s Greatest Radio DJ.” There’s a light chuckle from the audience since radio DJs are now about as obsolete as milkmen or dog catchers. But still, he was sure it was a viable career, then. “Think, like, Wolfman Jack meets Ryan Seacrest meets Robin Williams in Good Morning Vietnam. I’m going to be a _God_ ,” he assures the audience. “And this boy, the apple of my bespectacled eye, thinks shitty late 80’s top 40 is _it_.” 

“Well, I can’t have _that_ ,” he says, shaking his head emphatically as he strode to the other side of the stage, pointing at his chest. “He’s _my_ best friend. He has to have _taste_!” There’s a big laugh from the audience as a hand peeks out of the curtain, about four feet to Richie’s left, with one very particular finger sending a fond Fuck You to the comic. Richie notices and blows the hand a kiss, which catches it and returns back to lay folded in Eddie’s lap. “So, I try to give _Thing_ over there a taste of what _real music_ is. What I _didn’t_ expect was for the throw-away song I put on this mix-tape-”

Just then, a girl who looks like she could have been a time-traveling Bev catches his attention. She’s all of maybe fourteen, red hair plaited over her shoulder and her freckled face is smiling broadly, revealing old-school metal braces. He squats down at the apron of the stage and leans toward the edge. “Sorry, you know what that is, right?” The girl laughs nervously but doesn’t answer. Instead, she buries her face in her mother’s shoulder. Richie laughs and continues, “A mix-tape.” The girl looks around and then points to herself. With an exaggerated, playful groan, Richie folds his legs under him, criss-cross applesauce style and instantly knows that it’s going to take a production to get him up from here, but this tangent may take a while and that squat was not going to last. “Yes, you, the Gerber baby in the first row. What’s your name?” he prompts. The girl giggles and waves, adding a shy Hillary. “Hi, Hillary,” he bubbles back in a spot-on imitation of her tone. Then, he leans in and goes for the low hanging fruit. It’s been done, he knows, but it’s reliable with his audience. “In case you didn’t know, Hillary,” he teases, holding out his hand like it has a cassette in it as well as the microphone. “A mix-tape is like a playlist but if you want to start it over, you have to shove something long and thin in the hole and twist?” He then closes his hands both around the microphone to demonstrate the way you’d have to rewind the cassette. Then, a sly smile crosses his face and his hands start doing things that _aren’t_ that. The girl’s face burns brighter than her hair for the briefest moment before her mother catches wise and feigns shock, covering her face. At least, Richie hopes she’s not actually shocked. She’s got her kid front row at one of his shows. He hopes she’s at least seen a couple minutes of any of his shows.

Keeping the most innocent face he can, knowing he was toeing the line. “Whaaaaaat? You know what I’m talking about!” He gives a forced stammer and gestures awkwardly with his hands. “With the- With the pencil and the- in the cassette tape.” He wags his finger dramatically at the mother, laughing out a low, shocked “Shame on you.” He rises to his feet and dusts himself off, groaning dramatically as he stands back up. “I’m too old for that,” he says, clutching his back and doubling over as though aided by a walker as he makes his way back to the mic stand. Truthfully, yeah, a walker would be good right about then.

Leaning onto the stand a little harder than before, he tilts to one side and tries to bring his thoughts back on track. “Aaaaaaaaaanyway,” he groans, “what I didn’t expect was for the most overplayed song on this damn cassette to be…” He raises his eyebrows and shakes his head. He knows the camera can pick up that he’s rolling his eyes hard enough that they may, indeed, fall out of his head, “Not Tommy James & The Shondells or The Smiths or even some good old fashioned ELO.” He balls his fists on his hips and leans forward as the crowd laughs at the varied music taste. “I mean this damned tape had I Will on it and he skipped the Beatles.” There’s some booing- the first time an Eddie story has ever been booed at one of his shows and Richie is living for it. He nods dramatically and switches into an old-timey news reporter voice. “Yes, folks. You heard it here first. Eddie Kaspbrak, your hero and mine, thought that a certified classic off of The White Album was ‘Alright, but kinda mushy.’” He checks the wing out of the corner of his eye and sees Eddie covering his face in his hands as the crowd laughs. “What else was on this tape, you ask?” He crosses his arms and sucks his teeth a little. They’re eating out of the palm of his hand and he knows it. He’s gonna milk it for all it’s worth. “He could have latched on to _The Ramones_ or _Patti Smith.”_ He gives his list in a gently mocking tone. “Even Dolly Parton was on this fucker,” he squeaks, and there are riotous cheers from the back of the mezzanine. Probably the same general vicinity as the Daddy comment from earlier, he’d bet. The thought of some twenty-year-old twink who thirst tweets after Eddie being disgruntled that His Mans didn’t immediately love The Patron Saint of The Gays, Our Lady Dolly, causes him to laugh to himself a little harder than he meant to. He shakes his head and puts up his hands, signaling for the audience to quiet. “No-no. No, _no_. My little bastard _tortures_ me for the entire summer-” he says, dragging his hands down his face as he continues, “With Paul Simon’s Fifty Ways To Leave Your Lover.”

Richie had expected a chuckle at that. Still, when the audience seems to follow, he’s thrown and laughs himself. “What you have to remember here is that I am 13 years old.” He brings his hand to roughly his shoulder, demonstrating his approximate height then. “Something you should also probably know about me is that, the stage name Trashmouth?” He’d ditched the Trashmouth moniker for this tour, but the reputation still preceded him. Idly, he realizes that that is likely never going away. “Yeah, that came from my husband when we were about 9.” He nods a little and then gives a hand-to-god signal, then mouths nine while holding up nine fingers.

“So, for those of you that aren’t still lost in whatever Cannabis induced haze brought you to find Paul Simon-” he says, then locks eyes at a twenty-something girl in the third row. “Don’t make that face at me! My parents met at Woodstock, okay? The actual festival. Summer of ‘69. That should explain everything.” The crowd howls in laughter again, so Richie has to almost shout over them, “My Cannabis induced haze started in utero.” There are cheers. People yelling. Richie laughs, this time at them. He doesn’t know why it surprises him that his fans are the type of people who would think that smoking weed is a personality trait. “As I was saying-” he says, trying to guide them back on track.

“In the song, it’s basically...:” Richie suddenly realizes that maybe he should have planned this bit, even a little. When he refused a hype man, he’d planned to just talk to the audience. Maybe answer some questions. He wasn’t planning on explaining this. He claps once, then gives a bemused smile. “Look. It’s a weird little song. There are a million stories about what is actually going on but in reality…” He trails off, voice pitching up into a non-committal question as he makes a wishy-washy wave of his hand. “Some say it’s him compartmentalizing his divorce. Some say the chorus was literally just him teaching his kid to rhyme,” he lists and people are a little startled by the difference of the possibilities. “Who the fuck knows and honestly, who cares, but like…” Richie plucks the mic from the stand and continues to walk toward the stage left wing and Eddie leans back, knowing that the old adage is if you can see the audience, they can see you and he can’t, so they can’t. Still, he’s trying to avoid being associated with this little tirade, despite the fact that he’s been laughing the whole time. When Richie swings his arm out to point directly at Eddie, no one in the crowd is the wiser, but Eddie knows- And he’s in tears laughing. “We’re little kids and he’s my first crush and the song that he latches onto-” he says, rubbing his hand over his eyes in phantom frustration, “instead of any of the pathetic pining songs-” He makes a ridiculous goo-goo eyed expression that earns him some coos from throughout the audience, “is the one that ends with the narrator just fucking ghosting on his girlfriend.” He laughs, then adds, “ _Get yourself free._ Fuck me right? _Jesus!”_

When Richie pitched his special and did the set for the guys from Netflix, one of them, a long-time acquaintance, had said to Richie that it was a shock that he was opening up about his childhood; it was a refreshing glimpse into why he was who he was. He had pointed out that never, not once, had Richie told a single joke about his life pre-moving-to-California. Richie had never thought about it before, but that made perfect sense. Prior to going back to Derry, he hadn’t had those memories to draw on. When he started writing _You’re Lucky We’re Not Measuring… Richie!_ everything had poured out of him. It was like striking gold. Of course, comedy gold, but personal gold, too. Those memories, the good and the bad, were priceless. 

And it seems like the audience feels the same way. People are doubled over in laughter at his remembered frustration. “Look, Fifty Ways To Leave Your Lover is a classic,” he concedes, seemingly begrudgingly, “Everyone knows at least the chorus. They’ve used it in commercials and movies and everything in between. And Eddie was _obsessed_.” He stretches out the last word and leans into the mic so that his voice booms around the space. “Like, would rewind that song over and over.” 

“After probably the third week, every time I listened to it, my prepubescent brain would try to deflect the wounding my _poor wittle ego_ was taking…” He pouts. The crowd coos. A glint of mischief in his eye, he eggs them on, wagging his fingers, encouraging their ‘awws’ to grow to a deafening level. When he is satisfied, he cuts them off and grabs the mic again, “by making it a competition to come up with the worst alternative lyrics. Like, you know the bachelorette party versions of Madlibs. Or _any_ version of Madlibs with people who aren’t actually learning the particles of speech.” He pantomimes writing on his hand with the end of the microphone and walks around a little. “I need a _noun_ , a _verb_ , and a _plural noun_ rapidly turns into Jack and Jill went up the _penis_ to _fuck_ a pail of _titties_ and then all of your friends laugh at the mental image of a Jack and Jill scaling Mount Penis,” he gestures with his hand to the massive scale of a phallic mountain, “and inevitably finding a pail of titties.” He looks down at the imaginary pail and stumbles back in shock with his hands out straight in front of him. He glances down to his left and lifts his eyebrow, “You know what I’m talking about, right, Hillary?” The teenage girl is lost in fits of blushing and laughter.

The problem with stream of consciousness comedy from Richie is that, sometimes, the stream takes a meandering path to the ocean. “Also, side note-” he says, pointing out at the crowd. “Now, I’m talking to the straight guys in the audience here, all two of you, for a second. Ladies, gays, and other lovers, take a nap or check your phones or run to pee or something.” He gestures flippantly and people lose it. He doesn’t seem to notice. “Guys, what _is_ it with you and the preoccupation with the penis? Etchings on desks as middle schoolers evolves into other crap along the way and it’s less overt like. Like, my immediate group of friends is very not straight guys, but one of the two straight guys is an architect and the last model he showed me was very literally a huge penis.” 

The audience laughs and somehow it sounds like they don’t believe him. He looks offstage at Eddie, who has nearly fallen off of his stool. If he hadn’t been sure this was off the cuff before, he knows now. Ben had shown them the model two nights earlier. There was no way that Richie had taken the time to write this all down since then. Eddie is floored by the realization. It’s a lot to realize, but damn if it doesn’t mean that Eddie’s been right all along and he hopes that Richie knows that he’s good enough now. 

“And he did it intentionally!” Richie exclaims over the audience’s continued laughter. He holds the mic out in front of him and begins to demonstrate. “He put an arched bistro space on one side and a domed bar on the roof and the building, honest-to-God, looks like a dick.” He laughs at the memory and has to put the mic back in the stand. “So, I turn to him and I’m like, ‘Handsome’-” He rubs his neck hesitantly as he takes a step back and squints. There’s some shock through the audience and he rolls his eyes. “Oh stop, it’s a play on his _name_ and because if you need proof that puberty does come through for people on occasion, ask me to see the before and after at the stage door after because like… _holy shit._ You know?” The crowd is hooting and they haven’t even seen Ben. Yeah, that’s fair. “It’s a joke, I’m not a creep. Have you seen my husband?” He chokes out a laugh, then adds, “Oh no, I forgot, I’m talking to the straight guys, still.” He stops for a moment and toys with how to phrase it for a moment before it dawns on him. “This is the epitome of the no-homo relationship in my life. This man is like the brother you imagine having in your perfect sitcom life where your whole family gets along.” It’s a reasonable statement, now that he thinks about it. He refocuses his story. “Anyway, ‘Handsome, what the hell do you call that? How are you going to censor a whole building?’” He gestures wildly at the mic stand as though it’s the physical model and then steps back. “This asshole turns to me and goes ‘It’s great, isn’t it? And no one noticed!’” His face falls at first, then he purses his lips and nods. His glasses have magnified his eyes to exaggerate the disbelief. “Come on,” he groans. “I have one. My husband has one. I can tell you that I have never, since ditching the whole straight guy act, hovered on that fixation. Maybe it’s because I’ve practically been married since I was sixteen, but like, _come on._ ”

He claps his hands and gets away from the hard topics. “Anyway, sorry, minorities that make up the majority of my audience, you can come back now,” he bellows. There’s a blast of applause that reminds him that they never left. Good. “Mad libs, right? Mad libs version of Fifty Ways To Leave Your Lover?” He asks and the cheers confirm that that is where he left off. “And every time, my sweet little manlet would lose his mind.”

Richie smiles and shakes his head. “Not in a good way.” He rolls his eyes and grabs the mic again, leaning on the stand. He would go into a rage. His face would go bright red,” he says, pointing to his own cheeks demonstratively, “and he’d start spluttering nonsense. It was absolutely adorable, like a snarling little Pomeranian or something, you know?” He crouches down and pantomimes ruffling the ears of a little furball. “Like “Oh, you’re so mad, aren’t you? That’s my little guy. You gonna bite me? That’s a good boy.’” As he stands up, he continues to coo and pinch, adding, “Cute, cute, cuuute.”

“So now, I must ask, would you like to hear it?” The place erupts. “Good! Hillary, do you want to hear it?” He asks, going back to the little girl in the front. She nods and her mother laughs. He nods approvingly. “You were going to have to anyway,” he shrugs, adding, “I’d say earmuffs but uh… Well, maybe it’s you that needs them,” he says, gesturing toward the mom. The girl plays along and covers her mom’s ears. “We’ll just give the chorus because you don’t want me to sing for that long. Just the tip, as it were…”

The audience grows silent. Richie takes a step back and shakes his head as he replaces the microphone to its stand. He almost can’t believe he’s doing this. There’s no backing out now, though. 

Eddie has hopped off the stool and is standing as close to the stage as he dares, arms folded and jaw slack. He had forgotten all about the dirty versions of this song until Richie started talking about it and he can’t believe that this is where it was heading. Richie doesn’t sing much anymore, much to Eddie’s dismay. He’s always loved Richie’s voice in every iteration, but this is a treat, even if it’s wildly embarrassing. 

Richie looks off to the wings and smiles at his husband before starting into the chorus. “There must be fifty ways _to fuck your mother_.” There’s a loud cackle from the back of the audience and Richie calms. “Stick it up her crack, Jack. Try it with your man, Stan. You could use a big toy, Roy. Just let your dick free.” He sings, clapping to keep beat as he makes some dirty movements to highlight his changes. “Well, she’s so full of lust, Gus. You don’t need to discuss much. I’ll make her scream Ri-CHEE.” He whimpers his own name in such an over the top way, Eddie is sure that his laugh can be heard in the mezzanine. Richie looks over and winks. “I’ll make her feel free.” 

As the audience applauds, laughing as they clap, Richie takes an exaggerated bow. “Thank you. Thank you,” he says, sweeping down one last time before centering himself at the mic for the reasoning for his whole story. “Yes, I know, I’m a comedic genius,” he boasts. “Now, do you see why they gave me a ghostwriter for all those years?” There are a few scattered groans and boos from the fans who know the story. The rest of the audience laughs, not believing it. “Me neither!” 

“My husband, however…” He tilts his head to the side and laughs. “I’m pretty sure he still thinks you’re all nuts for finding me funny.” There are some cheers. A too-loud-to-be-sober ‘I LOVE YOU, RICHIE’ which receives a cheeky blown kiss in response. “Don’t misunderstand, he thinks I’m _hilarious. Hysterical.”_ The crowd doesn’t know how his Eddie impression is the best one in his arsenal. They don’t even realize it’s an _impression_. All they know is that he is hysterical and they laugh at his admission. But Eddie does know and he blushes into his hair. “But for the first 20-odd years of our lives, all of this energy,” he says, waving around himself dramatically, “was directed at him,” he points into the wings where Eddie is standing, chest puffed out proudly, “tailored specifically to suit his tiny little funny bone.”

A guy a couple of rows back leans on his date and bats his eyes as if to say ‘See, I’m not the only one who does it!’ His date promptly pushes him off with a smack. Richie laughs at the interaction and points at them. “Exactly. Yikes.” He makes an exaggerated face, lips pulled back into a grimace and eyebrows raised, then laughs. There’s no fire behind the yikes. He wouldn’t have it any other way and hopes the young couple feels the same.

“So, you people are,” he motions over the entire crowd then points at the camera before laughing as he wags his finger pointedly, “and this is a direct quote, ‘Fucking Losers,’” he says, adding gigantic air quotes before leaning into the mic to share a secret with 1,500 of his closest friends of the night, “which is Eddie speak for “Join The Club.” He smiles and looks over at Eddie who is nodding as he beams from his spot stage left.

Richie looks up at the lights with a smile and soaks in the attention. He takes a deep breath and preps for the next bit he has prepared.

**Author's Note:**

> I've been watching an unconscionable amount of Stand-Up and have been watching a whole lot of Bill Hader interviews in an effort to get the rhythmic speech pattern down, so I hope this is as good as I think it is. I don't know how many chapters this will end up being or how frequently it will be updated, if ever which is why I am marking it completed for right now, but basically, this is going to be where I dump any and all of my eventual "Richie Tozier is actually really good at his job because he's too big of an asshole to do anything half-assed and I love him for it" ramblings. Honestly?

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [measuring dicks (the hot off the presses mix)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26266453) by [QueenWithABeeThrone](https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenWithABeeThrone/pseuds/QueenWithABeeThrone)




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